the space between

The familiar of yesterday.  A constellation you've spent thousands of nights gazing at.  Familiar patterns, lights that guide reliably and silently.  Leather-bound and treasured, that is what you have always been here.  Reined. 

The unknown of tomorrow.  Treasures unwrapped. You watch it unravel, unfurl, untwist.  Unwrapped and open, a gift.

A love knot.  Made from the ribbons of the past, who you were, and strands of the future, who you will be.  You do not let go of one to become another.  You look at them, clearly for once, and bind them together.  You let the strength of the past stabilize the now and beyond, but mindfully so. 

Nothing binds you here, there are only sparkling bracelets at your wrists.  Adornments that remind you that everything that once held now only decorates. 

time of death

Another day, another sword.  Battle ready and poised to strike.  Rubies and sapphires in the hilt, their color drawn from blood sought and shed, truth sought and found.  The shine of this sword is no accident, nothing is.  A mirror image, so nothing can be hidden.  Remember that. 

Do you know what it means to carry blood and truth in your hands?


You have no power here.  Pretty is as pretty does so I'll whisper it.  A whisper is the pearl necklace of truth.  And whispered, it is still true. 

You have no power here. 

legacy

Rainbows of a different sort.  All the right colors, ribbons grounded below your feet, circling up, wrapped around you just tight enough to be confusing. 

Security or constraint?

Bound yes, but with softness and beauty.  Colored silk, smooth and watery, no knots to be found. 

You assumed it was to keep you prisoner.  You learn it was to keep you safe from harm.  You understand the only risk of harm comes from within.

I am the sum of all daughters before me.  I carry our history with me, silent tattoos etched from within - a map of those things you cannot trust to memory. 

for you

People come of course.  They bring flashlights, light matches, turn on cell phones, nothing helps.

Not really.  Which is not to say they aren't helpful or kind, truly they are.  But not in the way they think. 

This is a secret darkness no one else understands, their light does not work here.  They worry though.  As they should.


Polarities at play, this is miles away from the ocean you once saw in your teardrop.  Illusions, achingly real ones, left you gasping for air there. 

Not here.  This is the opposite of making something out of nothing.


You've been here before.  It's familiar, like camp.

There's even a campfire here, just for you.  Only for you.  You get close, it's good to feel warm.  You sing the camp songs, tell the stories, relive the memories.  It's a little bit different every time you come.  Different and familiar all at once.

In the end you stomp out the fire.  Kick dirt on the embers. 

All that remains is darkness and one ember that will not cool. 

Do you know what you don't know?  Do you know that fire can purify, forge, refine?

A bonfire lives within that ember, just for you.  A smoldering place, always, forever, as much a part of you as the color of your eyes. 

on the nature of being a hybrid

Or we could call this something about plateaux.  See, it should be plateaus with an "s" in English but that just sounds wrong because it is a French word and its plural is with an "x".

And that's my whole point.

You have been here before, done this before.  This should not be so hard.  You should not feel like you're walking among strangers. Or you should, but you should be able to maintain the proper distance to this particular tableau and see illusion from fact.  You should know that feeling foreign is just part of the painting you have to back up to see.  You should know that any separation you feel is a lie.

But most of all, you should be able to see how damaging shoulds are.

You do not know if this is the place, the one whose cobblestones will welcome you.  Either way, you still need to walk on them. 

Silent Witness

The one who sees the secrets hidden in sound.

Phonemes, syntax, embedded and unspoken structure that rule everything without a single sign of force.  Things that can be counted on.  And you surely did.  You remembered the words, the sounds, the sighs and gestures.  Categorized and filed away, diamonds that engraved the coolest marble.

Hidden away, a weeping willow to protect you, you build a palace out of all that marble.  Cold perhaps, but very sturdy.  Swirls decorate the columns, grooves line the walls, breathtaking carvings everywhere.  From the outside.  From within, brush your fingertips over any surface and you feel what each word held.  Nothing is forgotten here.

A universe of reference at your fingertips.  Use it wisely.

La salle des sceaux

Four walls, no windows - light is not allowed here.  Only a door.  Made of iron black with age and wood that no longer knows it was ever alive.  The brightest tapestries do not fade here, an incomprehensible blend of vibrant colors against a backdrop of fabric that ages silently with no real reason to do so and certainly no witnesses.

This is a room where a line means something.  Where the boundaries are etched in marble with diamonds and the lines are drawn with the blood ink of generations and honored forever.

This is a room where forever means something.  Where the walls whisper, "You are infinite."

truth be told

Mired, hindered, beaten down, bitten down to the bone.  Literally.

Reminded in the most humbling of moments that you are just part of the food chain.  You had forgotten this. Love, light and infinity aside, a mighty trail of breakfasts, lunches and dinners blazed down your back, spread across your thighs and posted flags on your calves and ankles.  Your feet really had no choice at that point but to surrender.

You are nothing but a meal.  You know that now.

You give up, you acquiesce to every predator you've ever met, particularly the ones who anesthetize first.

Bow and stay silent, become the ash you already are.

Dust of the moon

It is possible you see more clearly in the dark. You know that's what it's for - that darkness - to give your eyes a rest.  To let you feel your way.

You use it, that darkness.  Your hand is guided as you smudge the lines of shadows cast here.  The perimeter whispers to you.  You know where you are now.

A vessel, a sacred bowl.

In your hand, a black silk ribbon you always hold.  You let go and it unfurls, falling without fear.

Always the bearer of the perfect gift, it returns with just what you need.  

You breathe in a new tide, a weave of silver ore you must have longed for.

Understood

Elusive but unintentionally so.  Nearly invisible - that part was on purpose.  You've managed the storms and made discernment your profession.  As if your life depended on it.  A life lived only in the moonlight, a swirling whirlpool of anticipating and persuading.  Silent and quiet survival.

You realized you were a mermaid when you woke up holding the knife in your hand, ready to split your tail into two legs you could stand on.  A double edged sword, no sheath.  Your hands bleed as they free your right leg from your left.  You will be more of yourself now.  

And so you slay your dragons

You wake up with a blister - not on your foot - you can still advance comfortably.

It's on your hand.  No memory of holding a sword or wielding a dagger, you've somehow managed to carry the trace of a battle you don't remember fighting.  

Typical.

The laborious, involved, lengthy process is actually a snap of the fingers if you let it be.  Like taking off a winter coat you've worn too long.  Seasons confused, you thought it was still necessary.  Vital to your survival even.  You're amazed to realize it actually belongs in the closet, only to be removed when the seasons change again.

It's just a blister, right?  You are aware of it, but barely more.  Somehow it has managed to nearly heal while it remained invisible.  Or maybe it was never really that bad.

In any case, something has been conquered without you even being aware of it.

Do you remember how to celebrate?  Do you remember how to give thanks?  Honor the dead and burned with silent reverence and gratitude.  In the light of the fire, dragons are butterflies.

Artifacts

You take them out of the shrine and carry them away. Purpose in your steps, you leave them at the alter when you finally make it there. It was a long walk. A pilgrimage, you realize later.  Rosebushes along the way to let you know you're still on track.  As alone as you feel, you must believe that too is an illusion.  Someone must have planted those roses.

You watched that alter, you held your breath. Unseen hands burned what was no longer needed and breathed life into what was left.  Incense.  Ritual older than this life.

You could smell the flowers before you could see them. Before you turned, seconds before you walked away.  Lavender - oceans of it.  Healing in waves, fields that bloom once a year and no more. 

The sun is rising

Truth be told, it has been a long night.

Not a bad night, just a long one.  An endless dinner, so many courses and then the drive home.  You're lucky to have made it back in one piece.  Pitch black because of course they only light the roads in cities - who needs to see where they're going between cities?

Red lines through city names tell you the darkness returns.

And yet, somehow, you make it back.

You wash the remnants of the day off, you can't go to bed if you don't.

You wake and make wishes.  Not penny-in-a-well wishes.  These are whispered wishes, vibrations received and perceived even though you are alone and you have no coins to toss into the source.

You don't wonder if these will come true.  As soon as you spoke the words you knew they would.